Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/93

Rh

Below the shaggy pine They squeak and whirl and sling: "You found the swings so fine? Well, devil take you, swing!"

The fiend will not release The board that hangs too steep Till I am thrust toward peace By the dark hand's dread sweep.

Until the hemp turns round Too long, and is worn free, Until the broad black ground Comes flying up to me.

Above the pine I'll fling And bore into the mire. Then swing, devil, swing— Higher, higher, higher!